


Teeth

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Biting, Blow Jobs With Teeth, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:30:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Teeth are good," Rodney says dreamily. He's been talking non-stop in a soft, high voice that reminds John of his nieces when they get sleepy but can't quite let go enough to actually sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth

"Teeth are good," Rodney says dreamily. He's been talking non-stop in a soft, high voice that reminds John of his nieces when they get sleepy but can't quite let go enough to actually _sleep_ : a steady stream of words that aren't always coherent, rising and falling like some kind of self-administered lullaby.

John turns the page of his book without bothering to look up. Rodney's breathing easily, medicated into peacefulness and so long as he stays as steady as a metronome, eyes barely open as he murmurs to himself. John's not going to worry until he starts to tighten up again, face wrinkling into an old man's visage, pain making him shrill.

Still, like a sleepy child, Rodney occasionally needs to check in, voice raising with a fear that no adult will ever admit to, or at least, not the way a child does: unselfconscious in their need to be with someone, to be guarded. "What'd you say there, buddy?"

"Teeth, teeth, white and pretty. You have really pretty teeth and sometimes I think they're caps because there's no way they can be that white, almost blinding."

"Gotta remember to ask what Keller gave you," John chuckles, fingers warm and still against the cool paper of the page he's not really paying any attention to. "Cause it's good."

"Mm. It really is," Rodney confirms. Instead of drifting back into his meditation on the universe, Rodney rolls enough so that he can open glassy, red-lined eyes to look at John. "But teeth, teeth are really good," he insists, "I miss them."

John's brain flashes towards Lisa, curled up against him while he reads her stories about bears that love porridge and wolves that never really hurt anyone. "I bet you do."

"Mm. Not a lot of teeth, really, but just a little beneath the head or maybe little bites, like love-beats, that's what Gregor used to call them. It's so sharp there and it feels so good. I can come from just that, just a little bit of teeth during blow jobs and it's like a switch, or like I'm pre-programmed or maybe it's just Gregor but it was so good, really, and cold, I miss snow, did you know that? Snow where you can bundle up and have an excuse to never leave the house, never ever..."

John tunes out Rodney's ode to snowfall, sitting rigidly in his chair, feet suddenly flat on the floor. He's not sure which is getting to him most, the idea that it's a _Gregor_ who taught Rodney the joys of rougher sex, or if it's the idea of Rodney and sex, rough or not, invading his mind. He stays there, mind sliding from one image to the next, full of naked skin and red, wet mouths opening to hear Rodney moan, the way he does over food or in the labs when he finds the item he's looking for, or maybe it'll be sharp the way he sometimes reacts when John grabs him, shoving him towards safety. John's always believed that reaction to be negative, the huff Rodney is too busy running to fully commit to, but maybe not. Maybe Rodney's noise is from the way John pulls his shirt or vest taut against his skin, threads creating white lines of sensation that should hurt but never do, spiraling up to a mind that can't moan, not when he's running, but _wants_ to --

Or maybe it is Gregor, who could so quickly be switched to _John_ , Rodney's inability to remember names suddenly something to depend upon, to manipulate the way John knows he can.

Rodney's long ago slipped into sleep by now, breathing easily through the medicated cloud that gives him relief. John watches him, silvered skin rising up to meet him which each new breath, and thinks. There's always been that one line, the one John knows not to cross because it never ends up well, never. But if Rodney is dreamily whispering about teeth, missing the way they give fire and cool relief at the same time, hints of something else the way a fire glints yellow and orange and red all at once...

The meds are going to wear off by morning and John has orders not to administer more until mid-afternoon, strict control levered by a doctor who fears addiction despite the necessity. Rodney will be cranky with pain and desperate for relief, so if John asks... or, no, not asks, just slides underneath the blankets rucked up around Rodney's wide shoulders, palming his way down a body that will shake and shiver at his touch, lost in hurting that John can control, can _change_ , applying his mouth to where Rodney most needs it, nips of heat that will circle his cock, against the swell of his balls, the perineum below, temptingly soft and perfect for him to run his tongue against, pressure to ease that new hint of pain, red red red flickers among yellow, to make Rodney moan and gasp, sharp noises that will turn to long --

John shifts back into his chair, hand on his lap to rub himself firmly, a tease and reminder both. Rodney is hurt, leg broken running from something that gives what Keller sympathetically called the migraine from hell. John needs to wait, to offer what surcease he can, and only then, later, will John do all the other things he's wanted to do, locked away for so long.

And once Rodney's truly well again... In the darkness, John tips his head back and smiles.


End file.
